


Vent

by anoetic



Category: Bandom, Tokio Hotel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoetic/pseuds/anoetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can still taste you on my lips."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vent

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are appreciated and encouraged, thank you!

It had been months and still Bill had continued, whether he wanted to or not, to find various pieces of his heart scattered like ashes in the wind, only his ashes had been neatly arranged like a mushroom ring around his bed, but on some nights he drearily imagined that it would one day be his deathbed. It is crucial to remember that a very serious vein of his life had been ruptured and left to die not too long ago and even now he recalls brief hallucinations, brilliant traumas that seem to him almost luminous. 

“I can still taste you on my lips,” he wrote one night. He was still committed to acknowledging the individuality of his lost love hence why Bill would always say ‘you’ as if he were sat next to him, face to face and heart to heart, lost in a daring conversation about nothing and everything. The designation, the seniority of “you” that Bill faithfully continued to emphasize on his past love comforted him like a warm memory for that was all Bill had left. Shortly after he had written that confession, once more remembering without resilience, the waves of last summer, he pressed his face into his hands and cried. Only in the morning that crept after would he come to realize that his tears were a augmented testament to the ruthlessness of his humanity. 

Bill was a grateful person, full of merciful deceit and a juvenile outfit of intimacy that perpetuated the myth that it certainly does get better with age. He would say to himself whenever he was feeling wounded and scared that he was a child of God. (At once he is soundly overcome with a gratitude that he couldn’t understand and for what, he wasn’t sure.) Because of his assumed divinity that he isolated from the hearts of others, he rifled his arrogance with a bizarre but ingenious air of humility. Even though his heart could no longer be recognized through normal eyes, he insisted that his romantic life was still very much visible and that everyone whom he had ever kissed simply weren’t wearing the right glasses. Never once did he stop to account for the gradual recession of his existence. Once the fury of his trauma had subsided , further denominating his forgiveness into a mere mote of dust clinging desperately to the curtains, Bill had become an emotional wreck.

Mild annoyances rattled him to his core and he couldn’t understand why words no longer sounded as beautiful as they used to. Why his legs would strain and ache whenever he ran too quickly from an unknown face, or why water would run from the faucet every morning, or why sex had now denatured into something that saddened him into a catatonic depression. The answer was simple;

he had loved and had been loved.

With the seasons that changed he had been carelessly deprived of the feelings that are home to each period of life. Currently his feelings are residing in a comatose state in the stringy hot wings of summer. Not even a change in place and life could quite alleviate the trembling of his ache and it was a deep trembling that would shake the leaves off of the trees every where he stepped. No body, no voice, no word could mirror and thus eliminate the sadness that was cancerous in his heart. Bill sighs to himself, glancing into his vanity mirror that once reflected not only his face, but his lover’s as well. This mirror had lain witness to an imperfect selfish love. It had recanted it, salvaged it, and immortalized it as the months worn on and the love had withered and died and Bill absolutely hated this. His thoughts disentangle and collapse into a moment in which he was still very much in love and he shuts his eyes, blood boiling and his chest tightening as he imagines all of the bodies, voices and words making love to another all over the world right now. 

He wonders with a bitter heart why he could not be smashed between that smattering of friction, noise and sweat. Why could he not be present when people make love? Why was he deprived of this, the truest gift of life? This irritated him beyond belief as he quickly shoots up from his seat, fists balled and emotions flaring. “It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair!” 

It was at this point that Bill came to the conclusion that he needed to absolve the crimes that his hands had committed and so he resorted to a graceless act of ego death. He began to sell himself. For days he found satisfaction but like all tactless reveries it vanished without the faintest goodbye. Within a week Bill had returned to his grand apartment with much money and little fame. Later that evening he promised himself that he was never going to fucking do that shit ever again. Instead he continued coiling and pleating his lovely lonely strings of fate, furnishing the little lacuna that was his life with occasional dalliances and flings. Sometimes he would catch the curious eye of a handsome stranger and bashfully imagine those same eyes scaling and admiring the naked plains of his body. Other times he would even make small talk with almost criminal people, the weighted beauty of their existence was treasonous to Bill because he knew that they could never belong totally to him for the world would always lust for and steal them away while he was asleep in his bed. 

For that reason, he would always make photocopies of the men whose words would darkly remind him why he loved them so much so that later on when his heart had been exhausted and his jeans were tight he would be able to envision them so perfectly, so fully that when he would wedge his fingers into his tightness, he swore that he was being fucked by the most heavenly cock known to this earth. This would excite in him a long forgotten euphoria that would swallow him, nearly causing him to faint when he would come. His body would be ripened and loved as if there had been a stranger in his bed, skin vainly connected to skin, words and voices making love to one another underneath a flowered wreath of sighs, groans and moans. And when Bill would open his eyes he would see that there was no beside him.

No one but himself.


End file.
